amed myself for losses contracted at Venice. Still we
have good house-furnishing, clothing, costly things as earthenware
[maiolica], professional fittings-up, bed-furnishings, chests, and
cabinets; and my stock of colors is worth 100 guldens."

The last design of the master was a drawing on gray paper, showing
Christ on the Cross. When this was all completed except the face of
the Divine sufferer, the artist was summoned by Death, and ascended to
behold in glory the features which he had so often portrayed under the
thorns.

A violent attack of his chronic disease prostrated him so far that he
was unable to rally; and after a brief illness he passed gently away,
on the 6th of April, 1528. It was the anniversary of the day on which
Raphael died, eight years before. His friends were startled and
grief-stricken at his sudden death, which came so unexpectedly that
even Pirkheimer was absent from the city. It was long supposed that he
died of the plague, on the evidence of a portrait-drawing of himself,
showing him pointing to a discolored plague-spot on his side, and
inscribed, "Where my fingers point, there I suffer." It was said that
this sketch was for the information of his doctor, who dared not visit
the pestilence-stricken sick-chamber. But this hypothesis is no longer
considered tenable.

The remains of the master were buried in the lot of his father-in-law,
Hans Frey, at the Cemetery of St. John, beyond the walls; and his
monument bore Pirkheimer's simple epitaph: "ME. AL. DU. QUICQUID
ALBERTI DURERI MORTALE FUIT, SUB HOC CONDITUR TUMULO. EMIGRAVIT VIII
IDUS APRILIS, MDXXVIII. A.D."

On Easter Sunday, 1828, the third centenary of his death, a great
procession of artists and scholars from all parts of Germany moved in
solemn state from Nuremberg to the grave of Duerer, where they sang
hymns.

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadowlands
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg the
ancient stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of
art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that
round them throng.

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors rough
and bold
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries
old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their
uncouth rhyme,
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through
every c